


Gloomy days with a past

by Aeroa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 03:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeroa/pseuds/Aeroa
Summary: Another year has passed since the last big happenings in the life of Sherlock and John. They've steadily grown back into their roles as part-time detectives, until a rather unsettling case puts it all on loose hinges. A mystery that seems impossible to solve, throws Sherlock back into his own pains. It seems like the past and present are catching up with Sherlock and his peers.





	Gloomy days with a past

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing fan fiction. I'm curious how it'll turn really, so hopefully you'll like it. It takes place about a year after the happenings of season 4. Enjoy!

Especially in London, gloomy days are far more common than anyone would like to admit. Maybe it has to do with pride, maybe with good manners, or maybe with not experiencing gloomy days as particularly gloomy. Sherlock for certain, did not experience them as such. The sunny days made him feel rather out of place. He could not even wear his favourite outfits (he was more vain that he’d ever like to admit to), but had to struggle with shorts and t-shirts. The rising temperatures had an intermittent effect on his brain functions. Like a lion in the sun, he moved slower in the heat of summer, thought slower, behaved slower. That wasn’t even the worst part of it really – it was more so the prospect of other people seeing that there were aspects in the world that made him less capable. Sherlock preferred his weak spots unknown, liked the imagery of a machine for a brain and body. And thus, on a day at the very beginning of October, when the autumn was letting the skies of England wait for its arrival, Sherlock dreaded going outside.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy a day on the beach, but there were always so many people. It irked him. Lestrade had remarked on it, in the quick phone call in which he announced a rather confusing case with a robbery that seemed boring at first, but had some strange connections to a missing-person case that happened a few months ago. Lestrade had told him to go out and enjoy the sun. Sherlock had hung up.

To be honest, the foremost reason why he didn’t always like sunny weather wasn’t something as simple as clothing or functioning – it made him feel rather isolated. People were happier when the sun shone. The light-heartedness of the days, however cliché it may sound, made Sherlock feel a little disjointed, discombobulated, because it was an experience he didn’t know how to share. The bouts of depression that followed him throughout his child- and adulthood were most obvious when he was either bored or when the contrast between him and the rest of the world was most obvious. Maybe it was an elaborate Vitamin D deficiency that became most notable when its main proprietor was present, but often Sherlock had to deal with something as sentimental as melancholy on sunny days. He always felt torn between giving into self-pity and wallowing in his own, secret misery – and hating himself for feeling such humane emotions, thinking of himself as nothing more as a big ball of idiocy and whining.

But that was all irrelevant now; the case sounded like an eight at least and he had done nothing interesting for the past week. Time was ticking, if he didn’t get anything interesting on his mind, he would have to find something himself and those ideas were more than not just very, very destructive.  
‘John!’ Sherlock called out, but the only thing that replied to him was a faint echo. He grabbed his coat, assuming that John needed to get up from somewhere first. He’d wait for him down the stairs. Once there, though, he didn’t hear any rummaging through the house. Only Mrs. Hudson scuffled out of her kitchen.  
‘I heard you call for John, dear. Are you going out again? That would be best. It’s so delightfully sunny outside.’  
‘Yes.’ Sherlock replied, disregarding the remark on the weather. ‘Is he at yours?’  
Mrs. Hudson laughed a little. More of a giggle, really. In the way old people are able to, acting mysterious and all knowing, as well as cutesy and forgiving at the same time. Mrs. Hudson mostly grinned like that if Sherlock had forgotten something that was common knowledge. Such as what planet is the biggest (Jupiter), when the supermarkets close or when it’s actually day (and not night). ‘He’s gone out ages ago, Sherlock. I thought you said goodbye. He and little Rosie went out for a little walk.’  
That confused Sherlock a little; he was usually in the know about Johns and Rosie’s whereabouts lately. Ever since Sherlock felt like one of Rosie’s main caretakers, he was set on being good at it and never let her out of his sight accordingly.  
‘Right.’ He felt really confused. ‘I’ll be off then.’  
Mrs. Hudson noticed his slight bewilderment, but decided to let him be. He had been aching for a job, she didn’t want to ruin it with well-meant interruptions. And Sherlock did feel thankful, as he opened the door with a gracious swing in his arm.


End file.
